


Call Me Fil

by Tell_Me_Tales



Series: Stuff I'll Never Finish ...Oops [1]
Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: 'cause I'm lazy as they come, ...and I'm still not likely to do anything more with this, Abandoned Work - Unfinished and Discontinued, Alternate Universe - No Weirdmageddon, Gen, I've got most of the plot planned out, Pines Family circa 1970s, Pines Family circa 2012, Time Travel
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-14
Updated: 2016-08-14
Packaged: 2018-08-08 18:41:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7768870
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tell_Me_Tales/pseuds/Tell_Me_Tales
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Weirdmageddon never happened.</p><p>Shortly after the younger set of Pines twins go home at the end of summer, Ford is left puzzling over a Time-Measure Dipper entrusted him with. He has no clue what to do with it. Surprisingly enough, Stan seems to know exactly what he is <i>going to</i> and <i>has done</i> with it. Not that he explains any of that before snapping the tape and sending Ford back in time. He's dealt with that headache once already. Let younger him deal with explaining the rules. It turns out well enough.</p><p><b>Fair Warning:</b> This isn't likely to get past the prologue. Not because I don't know where I want to take this (because I have that more or less nailed down) but because I'm too lazy to write it all out and I've got too many story ideas to even try making them all a reality. Sorry. But I wrote this little bit, so may as well share it. Enjoy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Call Me Fil

_"I don't need you! I don't need anyone!"_

Fil has to admit, hearing those words echo (figuratively, of course) from where he sits in the passenger seat of Stanley's car is jarring. Never mind that he has been expecting them -- Heck, he'd even been _listening_ for them! -- it's still unnerving to hear all over again. Fil shifts in agitation, stretching his legs out when he notices they've begun to go numb. It won't be long at all now; his wait for the inevitable is nearly over. For this evening, at least.

One of the car's back doors is opened, Stanley's duffel bag (likely filled with boxing gear, a change of clothes, and too many bags of toffee peanuts) is thrown onto the seat, and the door is slammed closed once more. The process is -- more or less -- repeated as Stanley throws himself into the driver's seat. The teenager doesn't bother with the belt, just turns on the engine, throws the car in gear, and peels away down the street with an efficiency that might have been impressive if Fil wasn't busy clinging to the car's interior for dear life. He's always _hated_ Stanley's driving.

It isn't until the car finally screeches to a halt at a red light (Fil can't even begin to guess at what makes this one any different from the previous _four_ stop lights that Stanley has run already.) that he finally clues the still-oblivious driver in to the fact that he has an unexpected guest riding shotgun; though not in the way he'd originally had planned.

"Fuck!" Fil only just manages to catch himself before his head can meet the dashboard in a rather violent fashion. He'd forgotten; the passenger's seatbelt had a nasty tendency to slip.

* * *

Stanley startles at the curse and screams one of his own, "Holy shit!" The teen scrambles to get away from the intruder, pushing himself back against the driver's side door.

His foot leaves the clutch. The engine sputters and dies. The light changes to green. The car doesn't move.

"Who the hell are you?!" Stanley isn't even sure if he'll be able to hear a response with the way his heartbeat is pounding in his ears.

How did he manage to miss the fact that he wasn't alone in the Stanleymobile?! Sure he'd been emotional or whatever, but this was something he should have noticed! And, oh man, but what a lousy time to suddenly find himself wishing he'd actually listened to Sixer about wearing his glasses more often. It's dark and the person sitting across from him is silhouetted by the old street lamp outside the window. His own poor vision is not helping matters.

The teen's panic heightens when he sees the figure reach toward him.

"NO!"

Stanley doesn't give it any more thought before lashing out. He lands a kick to the person's unprotected ribs and feels the air leave their lungs as they double over. There's a brief moment of satisfaction, but then he feels his foot become trapped in a strong grip before he has the chance to draw it back. He aims a kick with his other leg in an attempt to free his foot; but, to his increasing horror, the stranger catches him around the ankle before he can even make contact.

"No, no, no, no, no, no, no, no," Stanley can feel himself starting to hyperventilate at this point. He struggles. (Of course he does. How could he not?) It's not enough, though. He remains caught and terrified.

He breaks down into loud, ugly sobs before he can stop himself.

Stanley Pines is eighteen years old. He has just been abandoned by his family, kicked out of his home, and is now trapped in a car (his own) with an unknown man (Has to be. A woman wouldn't have the strength to hold him like this.) and has no idea what is going to happen to him next.

He doesn't have a clue how long he has been crying when he realizes the stranger is tugging at one of his captured ankles. Gently, in a 'hey, pay attention' kind of way. It's not at all what he's expecting. He chokes off the next 'please' that tries to slip passed his lips. (When did he even start chanting that word? Had he really thought it would make a difference? It never has with any of the bullies he's dealt with so far in his life.) Now that he's been drawn back into the present again, Stanley can feel that the hands around his feet have loosened their hold. Maybe, if he's fast...

Stanley tries to yank his legs free, but the fingers tighten like the intruder was expecting the move, and he remains trapped. When he doesn't try again, the hands loosen their grip once more just before the tugging starts again.

Giving in, Stanley slowly, reluctantly opens his eyes. (When had he closed them? Was it before or after he'd started his mindless litany of 'please'?) The figure is leaning in slightly, but Stanley still can't see much of anything in the dim light shining in through his car's windows. He gets the impression that his unwanted guest is trying to talk to him, though. (How long has that been going on? From the beginning?) It doesn't matter. He still can't hear anything over the wild beating of his heart.

"I-I... I can't, can't," he grabs desperately at his chest and one of his ears, trying to communicate where his words have failed him. (Who'd have thought it? Stanley Pines, out of words.) "Let me go."

He's more than a little surprised when he gets a slow nod in reply. The stranger holds one foot away from himself before deliberately releasing the limb one finger at a time. Stanley jerks his leg back after the first three fingers. The newly emptied hand makes a (ineffective) calming gesture before Stanley feels his other foot released entirely. He immediately curls himself up into the tightest ball he can manage.

The teen thinks about opening the door behind him and making a break for it, but he can't quite get himself to do it. First off, he's not really convinced he would make it. He's exhausted, jittery, and doesn't really trust his legs to hold his weight right now, let alone run. Second, the Stanleymobile is pretty much all he's got left to his name. He can't afford to leave it behind.

It's as that last thought crosses his mind that Stanley sees the man reach for the keys. "No!" Stanley makes an aborted move for the keys himself. In the end, though, it was bad enough when the stranger had his legs. He isn't about to risk an arm.

The man makes that (stupid, non-)calming motion again before opening his coat and slipping Stanley's keys into one of his pockets. Oddly, he seems to be making sure that Stanley knows where his keys are being placed. Not that it actually matters. He knows he doesn't have a prayer of recovering them now.

Keys safely tucked away the man places one hand at his chest. He inhales, exhales, and uses his hand to exaggerate the movement. The first repetition has a hiccup in the form of a wince, but the man keeps at it determinedly despite the obvious discomfort.

It takes the teenager a (frankly embarrassingly) long time to realize that the man is trying to help him get his breathing back under control. Why? He hasn't the foggiest. But he hasn't been able to slow or even steady his breathing on his own, so he'll have to take help where he can get it. He just wishes it wasn't from the guy across from him.

Slowly (far, far too slowly) it gets easier to draw a full breath and his heart begins to settle back down into his chest where it belongs. He can still hear it pounding away, but other things are beginning to filter through.

"--re doing just fi--" _th-thump_ "--ley. I wish he'd hav--" _th-thump_ "--out this. I might ha--" _th-thump_ "--ter way to start th--" _th-thump_ "t's okay. It's okay. We'll g--" _th-thump_

Wow. This guy sure likes to talk. Maybe even more than Stanley does, which is saying something.

Deep breath in.

Deep breath out.

Listen to the creep in his car ramble.

"--at's it. Just like that. Everyth--" _th-thump_ "--s going to be alright. Though it would hav--" _th-thump_ "--ice if he had mentioned this hap--" _th-thump_ "--I can't begin to fathom why he didn't war--" _th-thump_ "--about this, but that can wait until I get ho--" _th-thump_ "--e'll have some explaining to do; that's for sure. Now--"

"Do you ever shut up?" The words are out of his mouth before Stanley can stop them.

The man stops cold for a moment. "O-oh! You can hear me now?" The intruder reaches up, adjusts his glasses (Stanley hadn't noticed them at all until the action drew his attention to them. He really needs his own pair, but they're back in his-- _Ford's_ room.) almost nervously, and then continues, "That's, that's good. I suppose I should apologize for scaring you. It wasn't my intention. If I'd have known you'd panic, I would have found a better way to introduce myself."

Stanley tries to swallow back his fear before he demands, "Who are you?" He curses himself when his voice breaks halfway through the short sentence.

"That's a bit complicated, actually."

"Right. Right. Wouldn't do for your latest vi-victim to be able to give the cops your na-ame. 'Course, if you're some, some kinda serial kill--"

"Fil!" the man blurts out, "You call me Fil! God, Stanley, don't say things like that."

Stanley didn't think it was possible just a second ago, but he feels another level of dread wash over him. "You know my name," he says faintly, "Have you been stalking me?"

"What? No! That's --" the indignation in the man's voice drains away almost as quickly as it came, "That's not exactly an unfair assumption to make considering how little you know right now.

"Right. Let's start over, shall we? I'm Fil. I'm not here to cause you any harm, despite whatever fears you may have on that account. And I'm not here to steal the car, either. I'm just not convinced that you're fit to drive, right now."

"So, why _are_ you here?"

Fil sighed. "That's going to take a while to explain, and I'd rather not have this conversation here. If you'll let me drive, we can --"

"Hell no! If you think I'm just gonna --"

"To the beach!" Fil cuts back in over his protests, "Just to the beach. You'd know immediately if I tried to go anywhere else, wouldn't you?"

Stanley stays silent for a few long, stretching seconds before he says, "Give me a reason to trust you."

"I'm... not sure I can say anything to get you to _trust_ me. Frankly, the smart thing to do in your situation would be running, but... Well, I guess... You have to know when it's time to go for broke." Fil digs through one of his coat's pockets (Not the one with his car keys, Stanley notes. And had he really been stupid enough to hope?) before drawing something from its depths and holding the whatever-it-is out to him. "Go on."

He grabs the object as quickly as he can, snatching it from the other man's grasp.

"Easy! I told you: I'm not here to hurt you."

"Yeah. Right," Stanley mutters before focussing on the item in his hands. It doesn't take him long to recognize what he's holding. "These are my glasses," he says dumbly before looking back up at Fil and repeating himself, "These are _my_ glasses. Why do _you_ have my glasses?"

Fil sighs in what Stanley is pretty sure is exasperation before snapping, "Just put them on, Ley."

"'Stan,'" he corrects as he slips the frames over his ears and makes a face; whether for the sound of the new nickname or the feel of his glasses settling on the bridge of his nose, even he isn't sure. (Maybe both. Yeah, that's probably it.) "No one calls me 'Ley'."

" _I_ call you 'Ley,'" Fil argues right back and then adds, "Don't be surprised by the light."

"What ligh--" Stanley cuts himself off when Fil pounds on the car's roof twice and the overhead kicks on. He can feel what little nightvision he'd managed to maintain get completely destroyed. "Augh! My eyes!"

Another sigh. "Really, Ley, it isn't even that bright."

Stanley removes his arms from in front of his face so that he can glare at the man properly, but whatever comeback he had planned to say is instantly forgotten. "You look like my grandfather." (Oh. Did he just say that out loud?)

Fil grimaces. "Grandpa Sherman? He has to be at least a decade older than I am right now," the man protests, pauses, and continues ruefully, "Except he died back in '63, didn't he?"

The silence gets uncomfortable (for Stanley, at least) after a couple of seconds. "So, how old are you, then?"

Fil waves a dismissive hand and Stanley's eyes automatically track the movement. "Let's say roughly four decades older than you are right now, and leave it at that."

He's only barely heard the man speak and Fil seems to pick up on that immediately. It doesn't stop Stanley from counting (and recounting, and then counting one more time, just to be sure) the man's fingers. There are six. On each hand. Twelve in total.

"Ahem. Yes." Fil shifts uneasily and clears his throat. "I was getting to that. I mean, obviously there was a reason I had to turn on the light, and it wasn't to discuss my _age_. I'd just like to remind you that there are other polydactyls in the world beside your twin; so it can't really be used as a means to --"

"Ford?" His voice comes out small and choked (Not surprising, really. He can feel his throat closing up on him. He's probably only a few more seconds away from a second panic attack.) but Stanley can't bring himself to care this time.

Fil (Ford?) sighs again. (He does that a lot, doesn't he?) "I told you earlier, Ley," he says while raking a six-fingered hand through his gray hair, "Call me 'Fil.'"


End file.
